Lilies of the Bowery
by Lingering Lilies
Summary: "On the day the Giuseppe Verdi was to finally dock in New York City in July 1914, I heard shouts from the deck before I even opened up my eyes. L'america! L'america! they cried. Little did I know what awaited me in the new land."
1. Bella Libertà

**A/N: Welcome! I can't tell you how excited I am for this story, readers, or how privileged I am to be able to work with the spectacular JJ on another lengthy project. I hope you enjoy! **(If you would prefer to read this story as an original work and not Brittana, you can do so at my FictionPress account, username LilyRMason.) Cover art by sheep-in-clouds on Tumblr.

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**Chapter 1 - Bella Libertà**

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The ocean wanted me dead.

It had no desire to swallow my body or fill my lungs, but it wanted me dead.

Mamma and Luca and I were blown halfway across the earth in the belly of a ship. I can't say whom the journey was worse for; me, with my stiff legs and crooked feet and weak stomach, or Mamma, with a child growing in her belly, who was often green with an illness other than what the sea drew out in even the heartiest sailors. Sometimes I was scarcely able to call out for Luca, I was so ill. Luca was our saving grace, bringing us cool rags and water and stale biscuits. At fifteen, he sat haphazardly between boy and man, but he was strong and kind like Papà, quiet and hardworking like Mamma, and I knew soon he would make a fine husband for a lucky American girl. When I was plagued with doubts and wondered if I'd ever see the shores of America, Luca would hold my hand and tell me of the streets as clean and smooth as the Lago d'Averno, the buildings more gilded than the Cathedrals of Roma, and of the milk and honey we would eat with every meal.

Somewhere between Napoli and New York, having sold most of our possessions, we belonged to nothing but the sea. We bobbed like corks for weeks, turning in our bunks like the contents of our stomachs. I lost track of days and nights, and my head was muddled by the smell of the gas lamps and the sweat and bile of our shipmates. There were but a few placid days where the sun shone and the sea was benevolent. On these days, Luca would help me to a chair on the deck and the three of us would stare across the endless, sparkling silver of the water.

"When we get to America, all our days will be like this," Mamma would murmur, hand on her belly.

I wondered if, like the sea, our days would stretch on forever, though I knew she meant to say our days would be kind and beautiful.

"Papà found work right away," she would say for the hundredth time, reminding me of the letter we'd received. "We'll never have empty cupboards again." Then she'd pat my thigh and say, "And the doctors there will have answers."

I would smile, letting the cool sea breeze wrap me in its comfort. She'd cup my cheek and smile back, and somehow, we found strength for the rest of the journey.

At night, as the sea tossed us in our cramped bunks, I would imagine my father on the dock of the new land, arms open to greet us, lifting me up as he had when I was small, welcoming us to our new home. When he took in the sight of Mamma's belly, his mouth would fall open and then tears would come, one by one, as he kissed Mamma's cheeks, hands flitting between her waist and her hair, joyous that the child they'd been praying for was at last descending from heaven after so many disappointments. When he had given Mamma's cheeks enough kisses to account for six months apart, he would declare that we were going to the shops, and that Mamma and I were to never wear our peasant frocks again. Then we'd walk through the grand streets of New York City, Papà pointing out each building, telling us when it had been built and what materials it was made of; cast iron, steel, limestone, and cement. His favorites would be the ones that scraped the sky. I'd tried to remember their names to make him smile: the Flatiron Building, Singer Tower, and the tallest of all, the Woolworth Building.

Papà had yearned for adventure since he was a boy. Countless nights over supper, he'd propped up his body, weary from a day's labor, with stories of faraway lands. On his Saint's Day every year, Mamma would give him a small card with a picture of some faraway city. Papà always said he had wanted to take Mamma on a proper bridal tour like the wealthy ladies and gentlemen in Britain were said to do. But Papà had only a few lira to his name when he wed Mamma, and their bridal tour took them no further than a humble room on the fringe of Napoli, two stories above the shop where Papà had worked since he was eight years old.

I'm certain that Papà's wish to see the world is what drew Mamma to him. Papà could paint such pictures with his words that when he took out his postcards and maps and drawings to show me, they paled in comparison. He wove stories not only of places, but of people and adventures so real I felt I had been there and met them and lived them.

That's how I came to be Brittany instead of my given name, Gianna; when I was a little girl and Papa would come home from a day's labor and scoop me up, he would ask me where we were going in our stories tonight, and I would declare _Brittany_, a region in France that he had once described with such color and excitement, it never occurred to me he hadn't been there. Since then, he'd called me Princess of Brittany, or simply Brittany, and the name never ceased to bring a smile to my face.

When Papà declared we were to journey to America, I had wanted to jump with joy; at last, Papà and I were going to see the world! Though I was nearing eighteen, I hadn't lost my wonder at his stories. I had no prospects to wed, given my condition, and truth be told, I was content to work from home, making dresses and mending frocks for our neighbors and ladies who lived further into the city. Every day I said thankful prayers for my swift, steady fingers and keen eyes. As long as I could bring my sewing kit with me, I would board ships and trains and perhaps - if I were ever so wealthy - carriages with Papà. My eyes were eager to match the pictures he painted with wonders I could reach out and touch.

I was saddened when I realized we wouldn't be journeying together. I begged Papà to let me come with him on his voyage and together we could send for Mamma and Luca. But he cupped my cheek and bid me stay and keep watch over Mamma and Luca until he could procure a house and the beginnings of a fortune for us. When I pouted still, he winked and promised me my own sewing room, and perhaps - someday - my own shop. I sighed and told him how sorely I would miss him in the coming weeks. He told me that surely the Princess of Brittany would be strong enough to withstand his temporary absence, and that I should rest and prepare my legs for the voyage. Determined to live up to my namesake, I swallowed my sadness and nodded.

I couldn't help but think that I was more of a burden than a help in those months without Papà. When Mamma learned of the baby coming, she grew heartsick, wishing she could tell Papà and pray with him that they wouldn't lose it like the others. She was weary and often ill, some days unable to rise from the bed in the small room we inhabited while we waited for word from Papà. When at last the word came, months later than we expected, I smoothed the page over and over, grateful to have proof that Papà was alive and well in America. The note was brief, written in his uncertain hand; _Francesca, sell everything but your wedding ring and join me in America! Money will arrive next week. Meet me at the kissing post._

The note was short, but I could feel the joy as I read his words. As a child, Papà had only gone to school a few years. All children of Napoli were expected to go to school, but his family had been so impoverished, he had had to lie about his age and begin work shortly after he'd learned his letters. When Mamma had me, he cried and held me to his heart, promising that he would make sure I could attend _scuola media_ and learn mathematics and history and the sciences. And though it was likely the reason Mamma and Papà had to stay in that same little room outside Napoli, Luca and I went to school every day no matter the weather, and when we got home, Papà expected us to tell him what we'd learned.

Mamma and Luca and I boarded the _Giuseppe Verdi_ in June 1914. It was a new steamship, Luca told us, but it had made a few voyages from Napoli to New York, so we were not to worry. As we carried our few belongings aboard in canvas rucksacks, I saw a few fancy ladies and gentlemen with large suitcases and trunks full of fine garments being shown their accommodations at the top of the vessel, while we were led down to steerage with thousands of other poor. Sensing my dismay, Luca whispered to me, _Some day we'll have money for our own room, Brittany_. His voice was dropping, and he sounded almost like Papà. Sinking onto the slatted wood of the bunk I would inhabit for the coming weeks, I smiled at him and echoed _Some day._

On the day the _Giuseppe Verdi_ was to finally land in America, I heard shouts from the deck before I even opened up my eyes. _Lamerica, Lamerica!_ they cried. The other passengers leapt from their bunks and scrambled to the stairs, save for Mamma and me. Luca was halfway to the door when he stopped and turned back, knowing he couldn't leave us to go above with everyone else. He helped Mamma up first, then crouched down beside my bunk while I wiped the sleep from my eyes and leaned forward, clinging to him as he settled my weight against his back, then stood with a faint grunt and carried me up to the deck.

It seemed everyone on the boat was already up, gathered toward the helm of the ship, craning their necks to see the new land as they dabbed sweat off their necks and foreheads. Though it was sweltering hot, my feverishness suddenly turned to excitement. I had never heard the passengers so joyous; over the weeks of our voyage, we had settled into somber quiet, tales and hopes of America hushed over humble, dim suppers in the bowels of the vessel. But at last we were approaching shore, and though I couldn't see it over the crowd, my heart swelled with happiness as Luca steadied me against the starboard rail. I held it steadfast as the cheers and merriment grew louder. Luca darted into the throng of passengers, eager to see America. I imagined Papà, waiting for us on the dock, arms outstretched, whooping and twirling his hat with as much joy as Luca.

I saw other passengers pointing toward the port side of the ship and looked past the mast.

And there, watching proudly over the harbor, was Lady Liberty.

She stood on a great stone pedestal, sturdier and more stately than the pictures Papà had shown me. She didn't smile, but her face promised fierce protection. I imagined Papà putting his fingers to his lips as he took her in for the first time, then raising his hand to the sky to send the kiss to her feet. If I had been there with him, he would have told me that Liberty was the second most beautiful woman in America, and that I would be the first until Mamma arrived.

As I looked at Liberty's stoic face, eyes fierce and blank at the same time, I thought she was indeed beautiful, despite her manly stance and her formless robes. I wished I could stand as strong and tall as she did, raising a torch to the sky with the might of the thousands who sought shelter and promise in her harbor. Mamma put her arm around me, and I tore my eyes away from Liberty to look at her. Her eyes were shining, her hand holding her belly, the joy of knowing her next son or daughter would be born into a better life lighting up her whole face, bringing back the pink in her cheeks.

Papà was right. Mamma was already the most beautiful woman in America.

My happiness was interrupted as a great noise came bellowing from somewhere above us. It startled me and rattled the ship, and if anyone hadn't been woken by the happy cries of the passengers, they were awake now. The fog horn sounded again, and it felt as though the ship itself was celebrating reaching its port.

And then, slowly, the boat turned, and Manhattan came into my view for the first time.

I had never seen such a beautiful sight. The water before us stretched in a silver-blue path toward a port where towers yearned heavenward, their steel and brick clean and new. The city was steady and clean, patches of trees coming into view as we drew nearer. I squinted, trying to spot Papà waving his cap, though I knew I wouldn't be able to see him until we drew closer to shore. I clutched at the rail tighter, hoping my excitement wouldn't cause me to topple over into the water, giving the sea what it had wanted all along. But with Mamma's arm around me and the promise of Papà's embrace near, my legs were as sturdy as ever.

The boat continued turning and we started drifting parallel to the port. Perhaps we were making a joyous circle around the Statue of Liberty; with the whole boat in celebration, it seemed apt. I turned my gaze back to her, admiring her jaw and her strong arms and firmly planted feet, her crown like spearheads radiating joy. It was only when the ship turned halfway around I realized that we had docked in America! I was so full of joy, I felt I could have run to down to the gangplanks and skipped my way to solid land, casting off the stiffness of my legs. But as it was, I had to wait for Luca to come find me, assisting me to the ship's door.

But by the time Luca had come back to collect me, a commotion had started near the stairs. As I looked down at the docks, I saw that only the fine ladies and gentlemen of the first class were being allowed off the ship. I squinted at the fine seams, the shiny buttons, the trim on their hats and waists. If I was to find work in America, I would need to know what the society ladies were wearing.

The first class passengers strolled down the gangplank, some gentlemen carrying parasols to shield the ladies from the sun. I thought that I should like to get Mamma a parasol soon.

But my daydreams of grandeur were interrupted when I saw the gangplank being drawn back up into the ship. Confused murmurings started to swarm at the helm of the ship. Women's hands flew to their husbands and children, perplexed expressions paired with their questions. I heard them ask, in their various dialects, if something was amiss, or if we'd be asked to pay tariffs most of them surely couldn't afford.

When I looked at Mamma with uncertainty, she kept her hand steadfast on my waist and said, "_Non ti preoccupare_, Gianna. Papà would have told us."

Swallowing, I nodded. Then, deciding right then and there, I said, "It's Brittany now, Mamma."

Mamma smiled, though the smile was dampened by thoughts of my father, whom she missed so much. "_Non ti preoccupare_, Brittany," she murmured. "We've but to pass through another inspection, and then we'll see Papà."

I swallowed again and nodded, feeling the worn paper of my return ticket to Napoli stuck to my breast. We hadn't been allowed to board with one-way tickets in case we were turned away upon arrival. The ticket had stuck to my skin for weeks, absorbing my sweat and fueling my nerves, reminding me that the Golden Door wasn't open to everyone. But Luca, who was smart and had made friends with some of the ship's boys, told us that only those with disease and infection would be turned away. He glanced down at my legs, then looked away, ashamed, as he reiterated that we had no reason to worry.

Through the doors on the other side of the ship, we were herded onto a barge. When Luca retrieved our rucksacks from steerage, he murmured something into Mamma's ear. Mamma turned to me, hand falling from her belly as she looked me earnestly in the eye. "Luca cannot help you, Brittany." Her eyes darted down to the plank that led to the barge. "They are watching," she whispered.

I nodded, clutching at the railing for a moment longer, summoning strength to send into my legs.

My legs weren't like everyone else's legs. They were sometimes stiff and twisted like a foal's. I could walk in my funny little way, but when I was five years old, I was still falling like the _bambini_ next door. When Luca began running before I could, Mamma and Papà took me to a doctor who stretched my legs until I was wailing in pain. When we had a little extra money, Mamma took me to see other doctors, hoping to find a remedy or procedure that would keep me from falling or alleviate some of the stiffness that caused me to stumble. But doctors had found nothing, and after years of searching and thousands of lira spent on doctors who did nothing but stretch my legs, Mamma took to rubbing my legs at every daybreak and every nightfall. Though her hands didn't draw the stiffness out of me, they assured me she would always try to catch me when I fell.

And so, as carefully as I could, I followed Mamma and Luca to the stairs. I tried not to look like I was walking under the weight of a heavy bag on one shoulder, as I often did. I willed my knees not to knock together and my feet to be sure without plodding or dragging the worn soles of my shoes across the deck. I kept my arms pinned to my sides so they didn't wobble with the unevenness of my gait. Each step took focus. Hopefully, with enough care and concentration, I would look like I had just a slight limp.

We waited as the crowds were loaded into barges, and then, because I saw most of the passengers doing so, I gripped the rail for support as I walked the slope down to the barge. Once aboard, Mamma looked relieved, patting me on the back.

When the barge was packed full of passengers from steerage, it groaned and began barreling away from Manhattan. My heart dropped; we were being taken farther away from Papà when he was so close. Moments earlier I could almost feel the scratch of his cheek against mine as he kissed my cheeks. I tried not to cry. I was tired and addled from so many weeks in the belly of the ship.

After only a few minutes of surging back towards Napoli, I saw we'd docked at a small island with a large building. It was as big as the Roman courthouses Papà described, its bricks red and sturdy, its limestone crisp, as though it weren't frightened of the limitless sea that stretched behind us back towards Napoli. I was afraid of the sea, but with land so close, I felt my fear start to dwindle.

Suddenly we were surrounded by uniformed men barking orders at us in words I didn't understand. Even the few Italian words they used sounded strange, as though they were stretched into shapes that weren't beautiful anymore. The murmuring around us escalated, and I heard people saying _health inspection, health inspection_ as their heads turned nervously and their hands worried their bags and shawls.

At this, Mamma seemed to pale. She turned to me, and in words for colder than I'd ever heard her, she said, "Brittany, _ascoltami_. You are _not to fall_."

Startled by the fear in her eyes, I nodded. Mamma had never been harsh with me about my legs. She knew that I never meant to fall, and that if I'd been able, I would have been a dancer. I felt my shoulders and arms grow rigid like my legs, and I held onto the railing of the barge for as long as I could. I was grateful that Luca carried our bags as we made our way off the barge, holding the railing as long as I could.

And at last, my feet touched American soil.

I wanted to crouch and kiss the ground, I was so happy to be out of the sea's clutches. But knowing I might not be able to get back up if I were to bend low enough to press my lips to the earth, I stood as strong and tall as I could, head held high like Lady Liberty as I willed my legs forward with as much grace as I had.

In a single line, we made our way toward the great building before us. Mamma looked back at me nervously a few times, giving me a thin smile when she saw how carefully I was walking. I avoided looking at the guardsmen that surrounded us, hoping they would notice nothing peculiar about me as I ambled forward.

When we got into the building, we saw other passengers setting down their bags. Luca didn't want to put down the precious few belongings we'd brought with us, but the guards barked at us, even forcibly taking my rucksack from Luca's hands. We were given a tag with a number on it and ushered down a corridor that led to a narrow flight of stairs. I prepared to journey up, willing my legs not to betray me. Luca stood behind me, and it felt almost as comforting as Mamma's hands on my legs at the end of the day.

Mamma went up the stairs first, strong and quiet like she always is. At the top of the stairs, the man in the white coat gestured with his hand for her to turn around. When she did, he gave a stiff nod, then marked the back of her dress with the letters "Pg" drawn in white chalk. Mamma didn't look down at us, but I could see fear in her eyes.

I ascended the stairs with only minor difficulty. I saw a man in a long white coat watching me, but didn't make eye contact. I wanted only to blend in with the other travelers. When I reached the top of the stairs, the man stopped me, his arm firm on mine.

My heart stopped. Why had he stopped me and Mamma, but no one else? Could he tell my legs were stiff?

To my humiliation, he lifted my skirt to my knees and leaned over to examine me. I flinched and pulled my skirt away from his grasp, horrified that a strange man would be so forward as to expose my legs. How dare he! My legs were not for anyone to see but doctors and Mamma and Papà and Luca and perhaps someday a husband.

Frowning at me, the man spoke garbled words, then lifted his eyebrows. He had asked me a question, but I didn't know what he wanted to know.

Figuring it was something about my legs, I leaned down and pointed to my toes, then to the base of the wall, then knocked my fists together and made an exaggerated wince. The man frowned at me, then said, "Ah, yoostubt yortoe?"

Too nervous to figure out what he meant, I nodded quickly. He sighed, his hand swift across my back as he gestured me forward down the long corridor with the other passengers. I took a deep breath, hoping I had passed the inspection.

At the end of the hall, we approached the door of the great hall. I peered in at the vaulted ceiling. It was the largest room I'd ever seen! Bigger even than our Church in Napoli! But instead of a cross behind an altar, the American flag with its forty-eight stars hung from a balcony over hundreds of people who had been on our ship. Once I stood under that flag, I would be one step closer to being American. I could hardly wait.

We were shepherded toward an area sectioned off by metal railings. Beside the pen were other pens just like it, and as I looked around, I realized the whole hall was full of pens, as though the travelers were being organized like cattle or chickens. Were the pens divided for a reason? Seeing that many of the people in other pens were sitting, we settled onto the ground. I tried not to look odd as I lowered myself and folded my foal legs beneath me.

And then we waited. Had we come so far to America only to wait? The hall was so crowded and hot and noisy, and I found nothing familiar other than the faces I knew from steerage, anxious hands clutching bags and babies and shawls. A few people shared the hard biscuits we'd eaten on the boat. I was so tired of biscuits. All I wanted was some of Mamma's soup and fresh bread.

After hours of sitting in sweaty uncertainty, our pen was collected by a guardsman. Upon seeing me struggle to get up, Mamma reached down to help me, glancing around her nervously to see if any of the guards noticed. They hadn't. We walked forward to an inspection point. I tried to get my heart to stop hammering inside my chest, but it was no use.

Another man in a white coat stepped forward, looking me up and down through his spectacles. He turned me about, lifting my skirt as the other man had done. I didn't try to stop him this time. Then he took a great hook and held it to my eye, tugging down on the skin, then up to lift my eyelid away from my eye.

It stung, and my instinct was to blink and leap away. The metal felt as though it could slice through my flesh, and tears started forming. But it was over quickly, and though my eyes blurred for a few moments, I felt relief as I was ushered forward with Mamma and Luca.

But no sooner had I reached the end of the corridor, a man's arm came down in front of me. He looked me in the eye and shook his head as he spoke words I didn't understand.

Heart racing, I was ushered into a different room than Mamma and Luca.

Mamma and Luca turned back to see me stopped at the door. Horrified, Mamma tried to rush back to me, but guards directed her forward. I reached for her, looking up at the guard, pleading to be allowed to at least say goodbye if I was to be sent back to Napoli. I thought of the few lira I had with me and decided to offer them to the guard in exchange for a few words with Mamma, but I knew the money was in Luca's coat. Luca strained his head back to me over the crowds and then disappeared from my sight.

Fearing I was being separated for good, I pointed back toward Mamma and Luca, saying over and over, "Mia madre, mio fratello! Mia madre, mio fratello!" hoping the guards would understand that I wanted to be with my family. A guardsman held up a gentle hand and spoke, though I didn't understand what he was saying.

My pleas went unanswered, and I was pushed into a small white room full of women I didn't know. The door to the room was closed, separating me from everything I knew. Behind a screen I saw a woman being inspected by a doctor, and by leaning slightly to the side, I realized she was stark naked! I averted my eyes, embarrassed. Aside from Mamma, I had never seen a naked woman before. I could only imagine the shame she felt, surrounded by strangers, exposed like that. A man inspected her spine, then tapped on her knees. After looking in her mouth and checking that she had no rashes, she was handed back her clothes.

And then I realized that I would be asked to disrobe too.

I felt shame surge into my cheeks. What would Mamma and Papà say if they knew I'd been seen by so many people without my clothes on? Or worse, what would our bishop say? Surely I would be forever a disgrace if I were to let strange men and women see me in all my nakedness.

But I knew that if I didn't disrobe, I would be denied entrance to America. I couldn't go back to Napoli. Everyone I loved was in America.

I started to cry, but I tried to hide it with the corner of my shawl. As I did, an old woman who I'd seen in steerage put her hand on my arm. She spoke with a strange dialect that told me she was not from Napoli, perhaps farther North or East. But having her hand on my arm trying to sooth me was comforting like the banister of the building I'd left in Napoli.

The old woman said quietly, "You help me, and I will help you, no?"

Not knowing what she meant but grateful for her assistance, I nodded.

Closing my eyes, trying to pretend I was bathing alone, I took off my clothes when the doctor told me to do so. Face burning, I felt a strange man's hands on my legs, asking questions in strangely shaped words. I didn't answer, only stood strong and tall and wished to be a mare instead of a foal. The old woman behind me mirrored the man's strange words, her sentences ending down instead of up like his, giving him answers. I tried to call on a Saint to guide me through this trial of humiliation, but I could think of none. The only image that came to my head was the Statue of Liberty, with her striking countenance, her promise of fierce protection. Though I knew our bishop would disapprove, I prayed to the Statue of Liberty that my trial would be over and I would be reunited with Mamma and Luca soon.

And then, miraculously, it was done. I was handed back my dress and told to step to the side. As I dressed, the old woman behind me disrobed and was inspected by the man. When he asked questions, she pointed to me, and I heard her say that I was her granddaughter. If the man had spoken a word of my language, he would have known that this woman and I couldn't possibly be related; our dialects were too different, and we looked nothing alike. But I had promised to help the old woman, just as she had helped me, so I looked back at the man and nodded, assuring him I was her granddaughter. I waited until she was dressed to exit the room.

We were shown out into the same hallway I'd last seen Mamma and Luca. As we crossed the threshold, the old woman leaned into me and whispered, in her odd dialect, "Go to Doyers street. There is a doctor there who can fix any ailment of the limbs."

Grateful, I nodded as she moved past me and disappeared at the end of the hall.

At the end of the hallway, I was overjoyed to see Mamma and Luca. I had never been so glad to see them. Mamma reached out for me, asking what had happened. I said nothing of disrobing, only that a man had looked at my legs, and that an old woman had been kind to me and told me of a doctor who could help with my condition. Mamma kept her hand on my back, protective and warmer than before.

We were led to a desk where a fatigued man with a pen and a huge book was waiting for us. He asked if we were Italiano, and Mamma nodded. Then, using an interpreter who spoke with a Roman accent rather than Neapolitan, he asked our names. Mamma glanced at me without smiling before she said, "Francesca Passerini, Brittany Passerini, and Luca Passerini."

My heart glowed. She had told the man my name was Brittany, and since it was written down in his big book now, no one could argue.

The man asked a few more questions. When asked how much money we had, Luca blurted, "Twenty-five dollars." I saw Mamma go stiff and knew that Luca had lied, though she was too afraid to correct him. Then we were asked who was meeting us. Mamma said, "Mio marito, Giovanni Passerini. Si, è impiegato," assuring the man that we had someone to come collect us and that he was employed. The man nodded and pointed toward a great staircase leading down from the noisy hall, instructing us to keep to the left.

The staircase was broken into three by two sturdy railings. I was glad to have something to hold as we descended. Mamma walked behind me, shielding my lameness from anyone who might ask me to come back for further inspection. I would be content never to be inspected again in my life, after having to disrobe so publicly. When we reached the floor below, Luca pointed to a row of desks behind metal bars, reaching into his pocket to take out what little money we had.

"We can exchange our lira for dollars here," he said, smiling. The idea excited him so. We'd never seen dollars, but for a few shabby pictures Papà had shown us. Luca rushed forward, handing our money eagerly to the clerk. After a moment, Luca came bounding back to us, five dollar bills in his hand.

Now Mamma couldn't keep her smile in. She leaned forward, examining the strange paper with its gray ink. Then, remembering we were surrounded by people, she whispered, "Keep it safe, Luca. That's all the money we have."

Luca's face grew somber, and he tucked the money inside his jacket. Then, looking around, we weren't sure what to do next.

Since he'd been acting as the man of the house for months now, Luca went back to the clerk and asked where we were to go now. The clerk pointed to the door, and Luca nodded. We followed, Mamma and I still wary of my legs, until we came into another room where people were rejoicing and kissing. One little boy was shouting, "We're free! We made it to America!"

Luca turned back to us, boyish grin spread across his face as he grabbed his cap and leapt in the air, whooping with joy before he ran back to hug first Mamma and then me.

I was so happy, so relieved that my legs hadn't betrayed me like I'd feared, I started to weep. I saw Mamma weeping too, and she drew me into her arms, hand behind my head, thanking the Holy Father and all the Saints she could think of for our fortune and safe passage.

We had been granted passage into the new land.

Our journey was finally over.

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Translations:

"_Non ti preoccupare" = _Don't you worry

"_Bambini_"= babies or small children

"_Ascoltami_" = Listen to me

"_Mia madre, mio fratello!_" = My mother, my brother!

"_Mio marito, Giovanni Passerini. Si, è impiegato._" = My husband, Giovanni Passerini. Yes, he is employed.

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Don't worry, Santana will make her appearance soon!


	2. Into the Bowery

A/N: Thanks so much for your patience! I had a wild April and wasn't able to get much writing done. Thanks to JJ for her help with this chapter, and Evey-H for her help with translations.

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**Chapter Two: Into the Bowery**

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Papà didn't meet us at the kissing post like he'd said he would. Mamma reasoned it must be because our ship docked early or because it took so long for us to get through the health inspection or because he had to work. That must have been it; he had a good job now, but that didn't mean he could leave whenever he wanted. Bravely, Mamma took Luca and me by the hands, leading us to where we'd stowed our luggage, and then to the barge that took us right to the shore of New York City.

I was so busy craning my neck looking for Papà that I hardly noticed when my feet shuffled off the plank of the barge onto Manhattan soil. Luca bent to kiss the ground as I'd wanted to on the inspection island, then stood up. "I can almost taste the gold," he grinned.

Mamma gave him a short laugh, but she was too busy looking around for signs of Papà. When she didn't see him, she looked around for anyone who might be able to help. All she saw were the people who had been on the barge with us. She walked toward a couple who were rearranging a few things in their luggage. "Napoli?" she asked. When they shook their heads, she asked, "Italiano?" They shook their heads again, all too keen to turn back to their task.

Mamma was never one to be easily discouraged. She set her bag down next to me, then signalled Luca with her eyes that they were to find a _paesano_. The people who had just gotten off the barge with us were no more wise of our surroundings than we were, though a lucky few were greeted by tearful family members. When Mamma found a couple that spoke Italian walking through the promenade without luggage, they had never heard of a man named Giovanni Passerini. Mamma thanked them for their time and tried to conceal a worried, disappointed face.

I settled down next to the bags, using my hands to guide my legs into a comfortable position. I stared up at the tree canopy above me; I hadn't seen that color green in weeks, nor heard birdcalls other than gulls, nor felt ground so solid beneath me. The peace and calm would have strengthened me, but the sun beat down hard and my stomach turned with hunger. I didn't want to complain, as I'd been assigned to watch our bags while Mamma and Luca tried to find information about Papà. I had the easier job.

I noticed a man in a nice suit studying the group of people who had just gotten off the boat. The fabric of his suit was rich; the thread was fine, the color even, the collar pressed and the buttons of the cuff were shiny. He wore a funny flat straw hat with a ribbon around it and his shoes shone like the light off the golden crucifixes in our church back in Napoli. Then a man walked up to a girl my age who was nearby with her husband. He asked her if she could sew. She nodded fervently and he extended his hand. He said, in an accent that indicated he was not from Napoli, "I'm looking for women to work in my garment shop. I can help you and your husband find a place to stay, so long as you can start work tomorrow morning at seven o'clock."

She looked so relieved and happy, it appeared as though she wanted to hug him, but didn't because it would be improper for a young woman to hug a strange man.

I looked up to see if Mamma had witnessed the interaction. She had, and I saw her pluck up courage to approach the man just as the young woman and her husband walked toward where the man was directing them to his associate.

Mamma can sew just fine, but not as well as I can. When I was young and just learning to sew, Mamma told me that whatever grace God had taken from my legs must have been placed in my hands, because my work was neat and even from my very first seam and only improved with time. By age ten I was imagining fancy dresses I'd like to sew myself one day and making miniature versions out of scraps for the doll I'd been given for my First Communion. At age eleven, I'd gotten my first commission: a dress for one of our neighbors to wear to Mass. She told everyone at church it was me who had designed and sewn her dress, and soon I had enough work to do from home that I didn't need to go to work in a factory or shop once I finished _scuola media_. It was just as well; I was content to look down at the world below our apartment through our little window as my needle flashed between the layers of fabric in my hands. On nice days, I would sit outside on the stoop, but after some rowdy boys ran by and muddied the material I was working with, I took my work up to the roof when the weather was nice, sometimes parching and burning my skin from the hours spent out in the sun.

Mamma approached the man in the straw hat and asked him if she might find work sewing too. I peered around her to see his face. He took one look at her, eyes flickering down to her swollen belly, and shook his head and walked away.

Mamma, with her back to us, let her shoulders fall as she stared after him.

But she was only defeated for a minute. She walked around asking more people if they knew Giovanni Passerini or if they knew where she might find work, holding her shawl draped over her arm to conceal her belly. This went on for at least an hour, and I started feeling weak from the heat even sitting. I couldn't imagine how tired Mamma was.

As the sun set in the sky, Mamma started looking fearful. I saw her hands clutch for her rosary, which was not around her neck but in her bag. Knowing the touch of the beads would soothe her, I dug them out of her bag and called out to her. "Mamma," I said, holding the treasured beads in my palm out to her.

She came back over to me, a grateful expression on her face. As her hands worried the smooth beads over and her mouth moved in silent words, I waited. Then, when I saw the Holy Ghost take her over, eyes relaxing as her mouth smoothed into a look of serene devotion, I said quietly, "Do you think there is a church nearby who might help us find Papà?"

Mamma's eyes opened, and she looked calmer. She said nothing, only nodded and gathered up her bag and mine, signaling to Luca we were moving on from the area by the docks. She stopped a woman walking nearby and asked, in a few mimed words, where we might find a church. The woman turned and pointed over her shoulder, and Mamma thanked her before gesturing that Luca and I were to follow.

The shadows fell long on the hot cobbles as we made our way towards where we hoped a church might be. I navigated them as best I could, the uneven surface difficult for my ankles and knees to adjust to quickly. After five minutes, I saw a ruddy brown spire stretching tall into the sky. As we drew nearer, I saw tombstones scattered on its front lawn between flowers and pretty stones. And, most wondrously, a Saint lorded over four parthenon pillars, framing a set of open doors. It wasn't a Catholic church, but I could tell by the look on Mamma's face that it didn't matter. A strange church had never seemed so dear.

When we entered, a man in church robes took one look at us and bade us rest in the pews. He brought us clean water and asked, in broken Italian, how our journey had been. Mamma, Luca and I expressed our gratitude as much as we could with our bodies, since the man seemed to understand only a few Italian words.

After we'd rested our feet and prayed in earnest for what felt like half an hour, the man showed us to a chamber off the main room. Inside were several cots and three plates with a humble supper laid out. I almost fell to my knees with gratitude; I hadn't eaten anything but biscuits all day. It was all I could do not to gobble up every morsel as soon as the man left the room.

Still, as I watched Mamma and Luca eat, I felt guilt creep into me. Mamma and Luca had worked harder than I all day, carrying heavy bags so that I wouldn't have to. So even though I wasn't yet full, I shared my supper with Mamma, knowing she needed good food if my little brother or sister was to be born healthy and alive, unlike the rest. The others hadn't been as far along as this one, only two or three months within Mamma's belly before being cast out. As I watched Mamma gratefully eat the crust of my bread and the remainder of my soup, I prayed the the baby would be born at its proper time, with strong legs, a clear mind, and a faithful heart.

That night I slept better than I had in months, though I still tossed and turned about in the heat. The ship had had no windows or doors for fresh air to slip in, and it felt as though we were steaming in a broth of bile and sweat for weeks. The church chamber had but a small window in the corner, but it was better than none. My stomach didn't lurch with each swelling of a wave. It felt so good to be on solid land.

Not only did the church provide us with lodging and food for the night, the following day they helped us find a room in a tenement on Mott and Hester Streets, and jobs for Mamma and Luca, Mamma in a garment factory and Luca in a tannery. Nothing was said of work for me; it was as if I was invisible unless I needed food. I felt as though I was something unspeakable, like an unholy ghost. But all I'd done was been born with strange legs, and since then, I'd tried to live by the scriptures, to keep my thoughts and deeds pure, and to keep God highest in mind always. Sometimes it was hard though; my stitches were no more neat when I thought of God while sewing than they were if I thought of what we were having for supper. While Mamma and my dearest friend Isa and the other ladies at church could talk of His love for hours, counting their rosaries and begging for salvation, I found more to say about the dresses and suits worn by members of the congregation. Of course I loved God, but sometimes it was hard to focus my thoughts on Him.

The tenement we moved into was nothing like what I'd imagined when I pictured living in America. The outside of the building was nice enough, but as soon as we walked up the steps to the front door, I started sinking with disappointment. We shuffled inside, barely able to squeeze single-file through the dark, humid hallway that reeked of lamp oil and gas. The tiles overhead were curved, the wallpaper was peeling, and the stairs looked as though they'd been there for a hundred years with no boards replaced or even a bannister polished. When the solid wood door shut behind us, we were in total darkness until our eyes came into focus by the light of a small gas lamp. We made our way up to the third floor, feet feeling for the unsteady steps. I was scared I would fall and was glad for the banister and for Luca carrying my bag.

The odor of the toilet permeated the air, even though the landlord had boasted of the indoor plumbing. "Two toilets on every floor, up to code," he said. "And a window in each room." Seeing as our prospects were few, Mamma hadn't complained nor tried to haggle the rent of twelve dollars a month, which Luca said was too much. We moved our few belongings into an apartment so small, I could barely lie head-to-toe in our room. The bed was just big enough for me and Mamma to share; Luca was to sleep on a row of crates covered in dusty, worn cushions. He never complained, though. He knew he had to be strong until we found Papà.

The other residents in our unit were an older, childless couple from outside Napoli, Signor and Signora Di Salvo. They never spoke fondly of the old country or of people they missed. I realized after a few days that they had been in America so long, they scarcely remembered Napoli. I began to wonder if I would forget Napoli, with its muddy, cramped streets that spread diseases that had robbed Mamma and Papà of three unborn babies and Papà of both his parents. I didn't want to forget, for the conditions we'd left made America seem even more grand.

Our tenement had but three rooms; as you opened the door that hung a bit crooked on its creaking hinge, the room for cooking and cleaning and eating was in the middle. I could walk the length of the first room in just four steps, though I had to weave between the chairs and the low-squatting cast-iron stove with its belly full of coal. The sink had running water, blissfully cool and usually clear. We hadn't had running water in Napoli; Luca or Mamma or I had had to haul it from the pump outside, dripping water on the stairs like all the other tenants, making them slippery and perilous for me with my faulty legs. Now I thanked God for having been given the responsibility to wash all our dishes and do all our laundry, for it staved off the dizziness the heat gave me in the relentless summer weather. Next to the sink was a large tub, over which a metal lid was fitted to give us more space for preparing food. The meter for our gas lights hung above the door. When the lights went out, we'd slide a nickel in the slot and the lights would turn back on. We tried to ration when we used the gas, as it smelled strange and made the rooms hotter than ever.

Beyond the kitchen was the biggest room, which served as a parlor and as a bedroom for our roommates. There were chairs, a small bed, a fireplace, and a chest of drawers. The wall facing the street had two large windows, and when I had sewing to do during the day, I would draw a chair up to the window and look out as a my needle flashed in my hands. At the back of the apartment, on the other side of the cooking and eating room was the room Mamma and Luca and I shared, with scarcely enough space for the small bed, a trunk, and the crates Luca slept on. It had a small window that looked out into the air shaft, but even when the sun was highest in the sky, little light seeped down. There were three stories above us, and the small shaft didn't breathe light or air as it was supposed to. We had to keep the window open so we didn't roast at night, but doing so let in the stench of all the garbage and contents of chamber pots collecting at the bottom of the shaft. On nights when the stench was especially foul, I tried to think of winter, when cold would come and freeze the smell, giving us some relief. I'd see my first snow in the coming months. I fell asleep dreaming of that.

Mamma's work in the factory was grueling. Thankfully, she got to sit as she sewed, but by the time she got home she could scarcely lift her arms to undo the buttons at the nape of her dress she was so weary. The factory she worked in was a good one; they were given three breaks a day, one longer one for lunch, and were never locked in or forced to work more than twelve hours a day or on Sundays. Mamma spent most of her Sundays after Mass sleeping, hand on her belly. Her brow knit in a worry I hadn't seen on her face before; with each passing day, she grew more tired and lost some of her strength and determination. I helped Mamma as much as I could, but I couldn't go to work in the factories because none would hire me once they saw the queer way my legs worked.

Luca's work was more grueling than Mamma's, but Luca is strong and doesn't have a baby in his belly. He was on his feet twelve hours a day at the tannery, drying pelts and hides that would later be turned into coats, shoes, stoles, and other garments for the ladies and gentlemen of high society. I wondered if the society ladies and gentlemen would still but those garments if they knew how much sweat and strain they caused.

Knowing I needed to make my contribution to our family's survival, at least until we found Papà, I set about trying to find work. At first I tried inquiring among the neighbors if they had any mending or seamstress work they needed done, but most were too poor to commision a dress and were deft enough with a needle to do their own mending. When I knocked on the door of the young mother downstairs, I saw she had a sewing machine by her window, and my heart sank. I could never keep up with a sewing machine, nor bear to take work away from a woman trying to feed such small children. I remembered how I felt when the young woman had gotten work from the man at the docks and Mamma had not because he had seen her belly and knew she was with child. Instead, I asked if the young mother knew where I might find work. She took pity on me and told me of a woman down the street named Nicola Morra who hired girls to make fabric flowers. I thanked her and went back upstairs. Putting on a brave face, I put on my cleanest frock, took the dress I had made Mamma for mass out of her bag, and walked as best I could to where the young mother said Signora Morra lived.

The street outside was dusty and somehow hotter than I remembered from the previous day. The stench that permeated the tenement was only slightly better outside; horse manure, garbage, and sweat still hung heavy in the summer air that was thicker than smoke. I walked carefully down the steps, trying not to fall, relieved when I arrived unharmed on the pavement. But taking time to walk at my own pace wasn't an option. Despite most people in the Bowery being at work, the streets were somehow still filled with people. Merchants crowded the sidewalks, selling apples and flowers and housewares from their carts, barking over the clop of hooves and the shrieks of small children in a myriad of Italian dialects. A few boys who should have been at school were playing with wooden hoops and sticks in the street, racing them with great whoops and little care for the carts and people they wove between. Laundry hung heavy and limp above, wavering in whatever small breezes graced the street, making it seem as though the buildings were leaning out over the road, threatening to topple over. It seemed each woman was weighted down by at least one large basket and at least one infant, and those who weren't were hunched over with old age. Carts with steaming, smoking food clouded the air, and the noise of carts and horses and people filled my ears until I could scarcely hear myself think. I never thought I would miss the mud and squalor of our street in Napoli, but in moments as hot and loud as these, I did.

The storefronts on our street were many. No one seemed to live on the first floor of any of the tenements; instead there were shops of every kind imaginable. A pub sat next to our building, much to Mamma's dismay. Mamma had little tolerance for men who drank beer. She and Papà had shared wine from time to time, but Mamma frowned at men who drank themselves to rowdy drunkenness. Sometimes at night we could hear men carrying on out in the street, but we knew it wasn't as much as what the Di Salvos could hear from their front room. Next to the pub was a barber shop, and beside that, a general store. There was shoe shop and a bakery and a druggist, but I had no use to go into any of them, since we had little money and no one liked a crippled girl roaming about absentmindedly. Rather, I had tended to keep to our rooms, avoiding stares of strange people and disapproval of anyone whose business I was curious about.

I remember the first time I knew someone thought I was different because of the way I walk. When I was five, a man come up to me and leaned over, speaking very slowly, as though I didn't speak Italian or wouldn't understand him because my mind was so addled. He spoke too loudly and his breath smelled so foul, all I'd been able to do was stare at him and blink for a moment before I turned and wobbled back to Mamma, whispering to her that a man was speaking to me very strangely. Mamma told me not to worry about people who behaved strangely toward me; that was a reflection of them, not me.

Things only got worse as I got older. Strangers saw only my funny walk and thought my mind had been scrambled in whatever accident had mangled me. But there'd been no accident, and my mind wasn't scrambled at all. That was perhaps the cruelest of truths; if my mind hadn't been clear, I mightn't have seen the fearful looks or curious, open-mouthed stares. I mightn't have cared when the neighborhood kids teased me, mimicking the way I walked a few paces behind me as I made my way to and from school. I tried to ignore them, but some days I would get home and cry until Mamma or Papà held me tight and told me a story to take my mind off it. It wasn't until I met Isa that I felt like someone treated me normally besides Papà and Mamma and Luca. Isa had been born with a clubfoot, and knew what it was like to get teased like I did. Years earlier she had had her foot fixed and walked normally now, though she remembered what it had been like. We became close friends, and she helped me walk with my head higher. When that didn't work, she yelled at the neighborhood kids who made fun of me. Upon seeing the success of Isa's surgery, Papà inquired if the church might help raise money for me to have the same operation. There was a small effort put forth, but all the consultations I had confirmed that my feet were not clubbed, and there was no known surgery to fix what I had. At least not in Napoli. Since then, I'd been given pitying looks by everyone at church, which made me feel worse than the slack-jawed stares and fearful whispers I had gotten previously. I didn't want pity. I wanted friendship. Isa was the only true friend I had, and she was thousands of kilometers away now.

I came to the building where I was told Signora Morra lived. I wasn't sure why one would need artificial flowers, unless they were being sold to dressmakers and milliners. I supposed, if made well, they were less expensive than buying fresh flowers every week throughout the year. I wondered if, after some time, Signora Morra might allow me to take a few flowers home to make ours rooms brighter and to make Mamma smile.

But I didn't have the job yet. Hopefully, once Signora Morra saw my fine needlework, she'd hire me on the spot.

I walked up the steps, clutching the rail that was thankfully there. Once inside, the hallway looked exactly like the one in my building, save for a different shade of wallpaper. There was a subtle difference to the stench, but it was all the same; sweat, gas, excrement, garbage, and heat.

I walked up to the second floor and ran into a boy taking his hoop out to the street, no doubt to join the rowdy gang already outside playing. He looked smaller than the rest, and I worried for his safety. Before he could dart past me, I asked, "Italiano?"

"Si," he said politely.

"Ah, potete dirmi dove trovare la signora Morra?"

He nodded again and pointed directly behind him to the door next to the one he had just come out. "Proprio lì," he said.

"Grazie," I said, dipping my head.

He nodded and trotted down the stairs. I heard the solid wood front door bang behind him as he flew out onto the street to join his friends.

And I was left in the muted stillness of the hallway, collecting my courage to ask for a job I knew I could do better than most.

I walked carefully to the door, trying not to let the boards creak unevenly beneath my funny gait. I didn't want anything about me to seem strange, lest it put Signora Morra off hiring me. I took a deep breath of putrid air and raised my hand. But before I could knock, I heard the merry sound of women chatting in animated Italian. I stopped and listened, hoping to hear something that would make me feel more at ease. They were talking about their husbands and children and grandchildren, poking fun at the strange habits of babies and men. Not having a husband or child of my own, I wondered if I would be odd in their group.

But I reminded myself this wasn't about making friends. This was about making a bit of money to help Mamma and Luca be more comfortable until we found Papà. I shouldn't be so selfish as to make it about me when everyone I loved, including my baby brother or sister, was depending on me.

So I knocked. As soon as the hollow rapping ended, the merriment inside died down. I heard footsteps moving toward the door and held my breath.

Then a woman with a stern face opened the door. Her hair was pulled back into a sharp bun, and her face was etched with worry lines, skin dry despite the humidity. Her lips were thin and unsmiling.

"Che cosa volete?" she asked.

I felt my throat catch for a moment before I was about to respond. I swallowed, then said, "I'm a seamstress. I was told you might be looking for another girl to make flowers."

The woman's lips grew even thinner as she sized me up. Then, finding nothing apparent wrong with me, she stepped back, opening the door. "Yes. Come in."

Inside were six women gathered around a table that was littered with scraps of silk, mostly in rose hues. I saw immediately how they were made; fine seams were stitched along one edge, then gathered and stitched together into clusters of silk petals. I knew I'd be able to make the flowers quickly and gracefully.

"Che bello," I said, smiling at the basket full of finished flowers near the door.

I walked in as six pairs of eyes followed my lopsided gait. I looked around the room, smiling hopefully. "My name is Brittany Passerini. I live up the street at Mott and Hester."

One woman, with rosy cheeks and a friendly face than the rest, asked, "Siete sposata?"

"No," I said, wary I was already being reminded that I wasn't married. "I just arrived here from Napoli with my mother and brother last week." I knew it wasn't a valid reason for not being married, but I didn't want to talk about it. I didn't want to be different than anyone.

A few of the women nodded and then there was silence. I knew I had to show them how good my work was, so I held Mamma's church dress out from where I held it pressed to my body.

"I brought some of my work to show you." I held the dress out, remembering how I had dreamed of this dress for Mamma for weeks before we'd had money for me to buy the cloth and find the time to sew it between my commissioned works. When it was done, Mamma had wept with pride; she held it to her chest between examining the seams. "É perfetto," she said, her words muddled with tears. It was rare for Mamma to say anything was perfect; she usually said only God could make perfect things. But she had worn the dress every Sunday for the past three years, until her belly grew too big. Every time I saw her in it, I felt myself soar above my crippled legs.

But the women's eyes held little regard for my fine work as I ambled around the room showing them. Instead, their eyes fell to my skirts, wondering what was wrong with the legs they concealed. I didn't know who was in charge of hiring the girls, though I suspected it was the mirthless woman who had opened the door. I hoped she saw nothing peculiar about me, distracted by my fine needlework. But as I came face to face with her, she didn't bother even looking down at Mamma's dress, rather squinting at me instead.

"Thank you," she said. "I'm not looking for any girls right now."

I thanked her and saw myself out. As soon as I shut the door, I felt my heart sink. None of the women has said anything mean, but I had felt their judgment just the same. I stood in the hall for a minute, preparing for the journey down the stairs and then the chaos of the street. As I stood there, I heard the women murmuring behind the door. I couldn't make out much, but one thing I heard as clear as the skies of Napoli:

"Having a girl like that among us would be bad luck."

My heart sank and I felt my strength get sucked out by something besides the heat and noise of the city. I sagged as I walked toward the stairs, blocking out anything else they said.

It was painfully clear to me that it would be nearly impossible for me to find work in New York.

I walked back to the tenement where Mamma and Luca and I lived. I saw all the same merchants and shops I'd passed on the walk over to Mrs. Morra's, but few of them registered in my mind. I felt numb and heavy and was grateful the apartment was empty when I returned. I lay down on the bed I shared with Mamma, flipping my skirt up to let my traitorous legs cool for a few minutes. When I still wasn't cool ten minutes later, I gathered the rest of my strength and fetched a rag from the kitchen, wetting it with the cool water from the faucet before pressing it to my neck and forehead. I took it back to the bed with me and draped it over my forehead, not caring that it leaked on the pillow. I stared at the peeling ceiling and let my tears trickle down to mix with the drops falling from the rag.

I knew my legs were funny. I knew they scared people. But I wasn't bad luck. Papà had always called me his good luck charm. I needed him here now to convince me I wasn't the aberration strangers thought I was. I cried silently until I was too tired to do even that.

I must have fallen asleep after some time, because before I knew it, Luca came home, letting the door close loudly behind him. I jerked up, realizing I hadn't done any of my chores that afternoon. I put my feet on the floor and grew dizzy when I stood too quickly, having to steady myself against the frame of the bed.

"Che succede?" he asked, his smooth brow wrinkling in the same way Papà's did as he looked around the apartment. He looked concerned. "Stai male?"

"No," I said, assuring him I wasn't sick. "I- I fell asleep."

He nodded, looking relieved, but then worried again when he saw that no food was ready and the floors hadn't been swept.

"Mamma will be home soon," he said, as though wanting to keep me out of trouble.

"Si," I said, rushing into the kitchen as best I could. I began frantically opening cupboards, taking out the loaf of bread I'd made the day before, grateful that I would be able to scrounge something together and not look like I'd been idle all day. As soon as Luca had finished washing his face and neck and hands, he picked up the broom and began sweeping the floor anxiously.

When he was done, I gave him a grateful, sheepish smile. "You're a good man, Luca," I said. "As good as Papà."

Luca said nothing, only asked if he might be able to lie down for a few minutes before Mamma returned. I nodded encouragingly, then took a moment from preparing dinner to bring him a cool wet rag and a biscuit to tide him over until the three of us sat together and said prayers over our evening meal.

He took the biscuit gratefully, then asked if he might have some water too. I fetched it for him, then sat at the foot of the bed. I felt I had to explain myself.

"I looked for work today," I said.

Luca said nothing, only sipped his water as best he could while lying down. I didn't even warn him not to spill. I could see how his bones ached from his long day at the factory.

"I asked everyone in the building if they had work for me, but there's a woman downstairs who has her own machine…"

Luca's face softened, and I knew he felt sorry for me. He knew I would have loved a sewing machine more than anything in the world, save for a healthy baby brother or sister.

"One woman directed me down the street to a woman who has a group of girls who make silk flowers. I went and inquired, and it seemed like maybe she might hire me. But then she saw…"

I felt my throat close up again and looked down at the ground, seeing where my feet were turned in toward each other.

Luca let out a soft sigh and lifted his hand toward me in sympathy.

"You're the finest seamstress in New York, Brittany," he said softly. "Someone will want you to work for them." His voice broke in the middle of his sentence, but he almost sounded like Papà.

I nodded, swallowing and trying to believe what he said was true. I prayed to God to give me strength to resist self-pity, and somehow found it in me to rise from the bed and finish making dinner just in time for when Mamma returned.

I knew Mamma was tired and that her legs hurt and that she had little patience for me and Luca. The three of us were worried that we hadn't found Papà yet, and that worry only mounted by the day. Mamma still rubbed my legs each night before bed, but her hands were limp and it didn't feel as good as it used to. I took to rubbing her feet as well. It only seemed fair. Her belly was growing rounder by the day, and it took more effort to get up and down the stairs every morning and every night.

Nevertheless, my experience with Signora Morra had confirmed that I needed to fix my legs sooner rather than later. We'd come to America to live a better life, and for me, living a better life meant getting my legs fixed.

The following morning, I gathered my courage.

"Mamma," I said, gentle and hesitant. "Do you think…"

I lost my nerve halfway through.

"Spit it out, Brittany, I've got to get to work," she said, rummaging in her bag for her shawl.

Then she stopped, realizing she was directing undue bitterness at me. "Sorry," she sighed. "What did you want to say?"

Plucking up whatever courage I'd dropped moments before, I stuttered. "I- I was wondering if perhaps - perhaps Luca could help me inquire about that doctor on Doyers Street."

Mamma's shoulders drooped and she stepped forward, brushing away some hair that had stuck to my forehead in the sweaty night. She let out a heavy sigh. "We've no money for a doctor now, Brittany. Not until we find Papà." She looked as though it broke her heart to tell me no.

Nodding, I looked at the floor. I knew we didn't have money, and it had been silly of me to ask. I only wanted my legs to be healed so I might have an easier time finding work. People here didn't know I was a good dressmaker; there was no one at church telling them I'd designed the finest dresses, no ladies telling their friends where to find me.

Sensing my disappointment over not being able to see a doctor as quickly as we'd hoped, Mamma stepped forward, placing her hand on my arm. "But it can't hurt to inquire." She gave me a squeeze and looked over at Luca. "If Luca can get away long enough at lunch, you can go with him. Just be sure not to take any tonics or examinations they'll want money for."

I nodded, relieved and grateful that Mamma seemed to understand how urgent fixing my legs was. I looked at Luca, who gave me a brave smile, nodding. "I'll come gather you soon as the lunch bell rings. Come downstairs when you hear the church bells chime noon."

Excited to have an adventure with Luca and relieved Mamma wasn't cross with me, I promised to shine our rooms from top to bottom before lunch.

After doing so, I made my way downstairs long before I knew the church bells would chime. I wanted to give myself time to go down the stairs slowly so I wouldn't fall, and then sit on the stoop and watch the passersby. I really did like to watch people; when I was sitting still on the stoop, no one looked at me funny. One gentleman even tipped his hat to me, which made me feel like maybe I wouldn't turn out a spinster after all. Of course, I knew I was already well past the marriageable age, and finding a suitor in this strange land wasn't likely. I was content with that though; I wasn't too keen on having children to care for or a husband to feed. I wanted only to look after Mamma and Luca and Papà, to make beautiful clothing, and perhaps to have a good friend like Isa once again, God willing.

When Luca came to collect me, he looked tired like Papà had often looked when he returned from a day's labor. He didn't seem fifteen anymore; he sagged under his own weight in the heat, which made him look old. I could almost feel how sore his muscles were. I wished I'd brought down a cup of water for him, or thought to bake biscuits to restore his strength as we walked to Doyers Street. But he put on a good front; he rolled his shoulders back and gave me a strained smile.

"How was your morning?" he greeted, extending his hand to help me up off the stoop. As I steadied myself on the sidewalk, I realized that Luca was starting to gain height on me; he was no longer the little brother I thought of with such affection, he was the younger brother who was tall and strapping and brave.

"It was fine," I said with a gentle smile. "How is the factory?"

"Hot," Luca said, wiping his brow. I pictured him working in the musky tannery surrounded by pelts and bloody hides for drying. He smelled foul, like the dead animals he worked with. But I was grateful he had work at all, so I said nothing about how he stunk, only handed him nice-smelling soap when he got home each day, seeing him melt with relief as he pressed cool cloths to his forehead and the back of his neck.

The whole city stunk, actually. It was as though someone had put all the garbage and manure and kitchen scraps into a pot, put it on the stove, and set it to boil forever. The pinhole chimneys in the tops of the highest buildings that leaked steam all day weren't enough relief; the air was so thick and hot it felt like holding your whole body over a pot of steam and inhaling for days after days after days. I knew I had less to complain about than Mamma and Luca; without work, I was free to rest during the hottest part of the day and to keep my skirts tucked up, so long as I kept the apartment tidy and had supper waiting when Mamma and Luca returned. I did the best I could with what we had, though my cooking was not nearly as good as Mamma's.

Luca and I walked as swiftly as I could towards where we thought Doyers Street was. Along the way, he stopped to ask a man for clearer directions. We'd no money for a map, so we had to do the best with what we had. The man gave us a funny look, then instructed us — in a perfect Neapolitan accent, I noted — to walk south a few blocks and find the curved street.

That was the funny thing I noticed about New York: all the streets were straight as arrows and wide enough to drive carriages through. In Napoli, all the streets were narrow, curved, and muddy, and you couldn't fit a horse through some, let alone a carriage. I'd even seen a few taxicabs and automobiles in New York, with their funny gargling horns, though not on our street. No one on our street could afford such luxuries.

As we walked closer, I started to get hopeful; perhaps there really was a doctor who could fix what had mystified the doctors in Napoli. America was a land of untold opportunity. I could only hope the greatest medical minds wanted to be here rather than in Europe.

As Luca and I walked on — I could tell he was impatient with my slowness, though he would never say as much — the faces around us grew less familiar. I didn't know many people in our neighborhood to begin with, but as we journeyed farther from the apartment, the faces grew stranger and stranger, with skin and hair and eyes in shades and shapes I'd only seen in books. Their clothing was peculiar too. I had to force myself not to stare too long at the straight silk tunics the women wore or the smooth sticks that held up their raven-black hair. The muggy air started to smell of things other than garbage and manure: strange spices that were more bitter and pungent than any I knew the name of, and meats cooked in new ways, and thousands of kinds of fish. All the smells were too strong in the hot air, though I'm certain they would have been pleasant in fairer weather. The words around me became clipped and toned rather than lyrical and familiar; it was a vocal symphony of mallets on different wooden blocks and metal beams. The streets became even more bustling that than of our neighborhoods; men and women carried great woven baskets full of goods from faraway lands. Luca grew nervous, and at one point shot me a look that meant I was to be careful of staring too long or drawing attention to myself.

I tried not to squint at the seams in the tunics; they were so fine, I could barely see them. I wondered if they used a different kind of thread than I was accustomed. Surely they must use a different kind of needle, one that wouldn't pull or dimple the silk. I'd only seen such fine sewing a few times, when I'd been brought to the altar of our church for my First Communion and had noticed the hem on the altar cloth.

I was about to say something to Luca about the fine needlework when he said, "Ah! There. Doyers Street."

Relieved we'd found our destination, I forged ahead with him, trying not to be knocked about by the crowds. Though the crowds were no denser here than they were at Mott and Hester where we lived, the buildings felt pinched together suddenly, as they had in Napoli. I began to feel as though the buildings were towering over me, threatening to knock me down.

Still, I forged ahead. As I looked at the signs around us, I saw than none were in Italian or even English; strange characters that looked as though they had been written with paintbrushes in black, haphazard stripes covered the shop fronts and signs. I realized that I wouldn't be able to tell a doctor's office from a fish market without going inside.

I looked around, nervous to find no one who looked like me or Luca. Seeing an old woman sitting on a chair outside a shop, I walked over and asked, "Doctor?" I didn't know what to mime, whether I should imitate someone looking at my legs or mixing a tonic. But I didn't have time to think of what to playact; the woman started talking to me rapidly in sounds I didn't understand. Then she was pushing a bolt of fabric at me, and though the material was fine and I would have loved to study it with my hands and let the threads tell me what kind of garment it wanted to be, I didn't have any money to buy it, so I stepped back. And as I did, my heel caught on my dress, and I felt myself toppling backwards.

I put my hands back, hoping to catch myself before my head cracked against the pavement. My palms came down hard on the ground and I felt the skin of my left hand punctured by a piece of gravel. Luca immediately bent over and tried to help me up, but I was in a strange position with my legs tangled in my skirt. As he was helping me, the woman started talking loudly to him, gesturing to the bolt of fabric. He held up a hand to her, backing away while trying to help me as I was nearly run over by a small cart with bells attached to it. I managed to roll out of harm's way and crouch until my legs were steady enough to stand up.

"Sta bene?" Luca asked frantically

I nodded as I brushed myself off, embarrassed. I examined my palm and pried out the piece of gravel lodged in the heel of my hand. When I could no longer delay looking at Luca, I felt myself sink with guilt for making him accompany me on a fruitless journey during his precious lunch hour, and further still with my own disappointment. I'd been dreaming of the wonders a new doctor would be able to work on me, never thinking that perhaps it would be as hard to find such a man in New York as it was in Napoli. I'd thought we'd left all our Old World struggles behind. Even if we had found the miracle worker the old woman told me about at the inspection island, I wouldn't be able to understand a word he said.

Luca offered me his arm, and my pride was so bruised that I took it. We walked slower as we left the foreign streets below Canal Street for the slightly less foreign streets of our neighborhood. When we got to the corner of our block, I looked at Luca, trying to pretend I wasn't as discouraged as I was.

"I can walk from here," I said just loud enough to be heard over the racket of the street.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

I nodded, but couldn't meet his eyes. All I wanted to was to be invisible until I got into our apartment, and then to sink into the bed.

Luca gave me an uncertain nod, and after sizing me up for a moment, turned and headed back to the factory.

I trudged up the street, keeping my head down to avoid looking at anyone staring at me. The heat and sun beat down on me, and I wondered if it would always be this hot in America. I'd never felt anything like it in Napoli, save for a few days each July. Here, the heat was relentless. When I got inside the apartment, I looked at the bed. I felt it calling to me, offering to swallow me up as it had the day before. But I knew I wouldn't be able to make a good dinner and have the laundry up to dry by the time Mamma got home if I lay down and accidentally fell asleep. Instead, I ran the cool water in the sink, cleaning out the scrape in my hand before wetting a rag and draping it over my neck. I felt water trickle down and soak into my dress. It felt good.

On instinct, I knelt right there in front of the sink, clasping my hands on the edge of the basin as though it were a church pew. As the water ran, I prayed it would wash away the feeling I'd been carrying with me since we arrived in New York. I prayed to be cleansed of my sadness and anger and be left with only pure thoughts. I prayed for God to show me the path I was to take in this new land. And I prayed, as always, for Mamma's health and the life of my little brother and sister. When I was finished, I felt a welcome sense of peace had slowly filled me. I was still heavy and hot, but I didn't have the urge to sleep until the sun set.

I set about doing the rest of my work for the day. I carefully slid the lid off the great metal tub that sat next to our sink, trying to not drop it with a great crash and alarm the young mother with her three babies downstairs. I filled the tub with water, adding the soap and soda, and placed all our garments inside to soak for a while before using the agitator to coax the stubborn dirt and sweat stains out. I was careful not to get the soap or soda into the scrape on my palm, but I knew I'd feel the sharp sting eventually. I drained the tub and filled it again, using the agitator once more before a final rinse and wringing. The cool water that slid down my arms and splattered my dress felt good. I felt strength fill my limbs.

When Mamma returned home that evening, she was happy to see the supper I'd prepared.

"Your cooking is improving, Brittany," she said with a weary but encouraging smile.

Luca hummed his agreement, his mouth too full to speak.

"Oh!" Mamma said, as though she'd just remembered. "You didn't tell me how your inquiry with the doctor went today."

I caught Luca's eyes, regretting the reminder of our outing. He said nothing, only took another bite.

"We couldn't find him," I said, not wanting to recount the strange part of town we'd ended up in, or how I'd fallen in the middle of a busy street, or how I'd wasted Luca's precious lunch hour.

"Che peccato," Mamma said with a little pout. "I'm sorry, mia diletta."

The following day after taking the laundry off the line and cleaning up from our morning meal, I stood looking around the apartment. I stared at the sink, wondering if I should pray again. I had nothing else pressing to do. Clumsily, I knelt, clasping my hands together on the edge of the sink.

I directed my thoughts to God, thanking Him again for ensuring our safety as we journeyed to this new land. I thanked him for Mamma's health, and Luca's health, and my own, and asked Him to help us find Papà, and to keep Papà safe until we were reunited. Then I concentrated, asking for guidance. I wasn't sure if I was asking for His guidance in finding a job or finding holy peace in my own heart, but I offered up my plea.

And when I was done, I rose from the floor, put on my shoes, and walked out of the building. I knew that I had to keep looking for work if I was to find it. Work wouldn't fall in my lap sitting around all in our three tiny rooms. So I walked through the early morning crowds of people bustling to get to work and school. I tried to stay out of the way as best I could by staying close to the stoops and shop entrances, but it was hard, given that I couldn't walk as fast as everyone else. A few people made comments as they brushed past me, but I thought of Isa and tried not to listen.

And then one young man was so bothered by my slow pace, he almost knocked me over in his hurry. I cried out as I caught myself on the window of a shop. It took me a minute to get my bearings, hands pressed desperately against the glass, hoping it wouldn't shatter under my sudden weight. But it didn't. As I righted myself, I looked at where my hands were pressed and saw a sign that read: ALTERATIONS AND MENDING. I didn't think I'd seen such a shop on this part of our street. I stood and looked up at the sign above the door which read "Wash and Fold Service."

I thought it was strange that anyone would send their laundry out when it was easier to do it at home. Back in Napoli, some of the local girls did laundry for neighbors for a few lira, but taking laundry out to a shop seemed fancy and impersonal. But I supposed here in America, people did things differently, even in poor neighborhoods like ours.

I stepped into the shop, taking in the sight of all the bags and crates of strangers' laundry. I wondered if people felt embarrassed to have a stranger wash their more intimate garments.

Upon hearing me enter, a girl about my age looked up from behind the counter. She looked weary and stressed, her eyes older than the rest of her face.

"Picking up?" she asked me.

Uncertain what she meant, I shook my head. I didn't know how to inquire about the alterations the shop offered. My words came out all jumbled when I tried to talk.

"Do you- you offer - the sign says you offer mending?"

The girl nodded swiftly while restacking some bags next to the counter. "Drop off today, pick up tomorrow."

"Okay," I said, swallowing. I looked around, taking in the baskets and stacks of strangers' laundry piled together just as their owners were packed together in the streets and tenements. I felt awkward and nervous, but I knew I needed to clarify that I didn't need any mending myself. "Do you need anyone to do mending? I'm a good seamstress." Picturing myself with fabric and thread in my hands was relaxing. It reminded me of what I could do well.

"No," the girl said, not making eye contact. "Try the laundry at the corner of Mulberry Street and Canal."

I nodded and thanked her before slipping back out into the chaotic heat of the street, heading south.

The laundry on Mulberry Street was smaller and shabbier than the one on Mott Street. It was run by a woman who looked as though she'd been doing laundry for a hundred years. Her dialect was strange as she informed me that she didn't do mending or alterations. Thinking that perhaps she might want to start offering mending to increase her business, I offered my services. But she brushed me off, shuffling behind a line of clothing hanging behind the counter without further conversation.

I wasn't sure what to do. I couldn't go back to the tenement and spend the day moping about as I had the previous two days. So instead, I shook some of the heat out of my skirt before stepping back out into the street, determined to find a business that might need some kind of seamstress work.

I walked north for a while. I was sweating a great deal and squinting under the harsh mid-morning sun. The streets were already parched, despite the mugginess, and I felt my throat clutch for want of water. I decided that after inquiring at one more business, I would go home to rest my legs, wipe my brow, and drink some of the cool water that flowed unlimited from our faucet.

I walked back up Mott Street, seeing the storefronts that were becoming more familiar with each passing day. They still didn't provide comfort like the streets of Napoli, though. I walked until I knew I was coming close to the edge of our neighborhood. After our experience on Doyers Street, Luca had forbidden me from leaving our Italian neighborhood. I knew Luca was younger than me and couldn't command me like Papà could, but I didn't feel compelled to leave the relative safety of a place where most people spoke some kind of Italian. So instead I ventured one block east, hoping that I'd see something promising.

At the corner of Elizabeth Street and Broome Street sat the only other laundry I'd seen that day. It was larger than the others, its place between the shops flanking it declared rather than apologetic. The storefront was well-kept, the glass clean and clear. The letters above the door were a bit faded, but there was no garbage on the sidewalk, nor bums sitting in the doorway. There was no sign in the window offering mending, but I didn't let that discourage me. Perhaps the owner simply didn't have a girl to do mending yet. Maybe I could be that girl.

I approached the door, squinting through the glass to see if the girl working the counter looked like she was from Napoli. I couldn't tell at first, for the glare the sun created showed me more of my own reflection than the contents of the store. I pressed closer to the glass, holding my hand up to block the light.

The girl working the counter looked about my age, with garments nicer than mine. She kept her head down, hair curtaining her face, its black waves obscuring her expression. The skin of her arms was tan and smooth. She moved like a bird, nervous and quick, with soft deliberation. She was busy, but she didn't look like she'd brush me off as the other women had done.

Willing myself to be brave just one more time that day, I opened the door of the laundry, hearing the bell above the door clang as I did. I took two swift steps inside, hiding my gait as I cleared my throat to begin my query about seamstress work.

She looked up from behind the counter. Her face was smooth and clean and held none of the world-weariness that permeated the neighborhood. The apple of her cheeks was pink to match her full lips.

And then her onyx-dark eyes met mine for the first time, and time stopped.

* * *

_Italian translations:_

_"Ah, potete dirmi dove trovare la signora Morra?" = "Can you kindly direct me to Mrs. Morra?"_

_"Proprio lì" = Right there_

_"Che cosa volete?" = "What do you want?" (kind of rude)_

_"Che bello" = "How pretty"_

_"Seite sposata?" = "Are you married?"_

_"É perfetto" = "It's perfect"_

_"Che succede? Stai male?" = "What's going on? Are you ill?"_

_"Stai bene?" = "Are you okay?"_

_"Che peccato, mia diletta." = "How unfortunate, sweetheart."_


End file.
